


Good Company

by nastally, quirkysubject



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Album Recording, Angst, Hardcore Pornography, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, M/M, Male Friendship, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Sharing a Bed, Softcore Porn Movies, Soho 1972, Trident Studios, and there was only one bed, boy's night out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26012704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/pseuds/quirkysubject
Summary: Freddie lifts an eyebrow. "Roger?"When the drummer meets his eyes, he returns the grin. "You know, we could…" he starts, nodding towards the cinema."You can't be serious!" Brian sounds scandalised."Well, we never saw the end last time!" Roger argues.John is looking between all of them with nothing short of giddy excitement, like a schoolboy who's been let in on a fantastic prank.- - -After a frustrating evening at the studio, Roger and Freddie's night takes an unexpected turn.This is the best thing they've ever done.This is the worst thing they've ever done.
Relationships: Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor, Mary Austin/Freddie Mercury, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 134
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, one and all! 
> 
> Welcome to a collab which was written to answer a burning question we asked ourselves: What is one of the most realistic Froger scenarios we could possibly think of?
> 
> Well, here it is. We hope you enjoy! We certainly did. 
> 
> Thanks to @bisexualroger for beta-reading/britpicking! You are fab!

"Are you sure?" Mary's voice sounds calm and a little distant over the phone. It's past dinner time, and he can just imagine her, curled up on the sofa with a cup of tea, one of the cats purring in her lap. "I don't mind if you get in late, you won't bother me." 

He should long to cuddle up to her in bed tonight, surely he should. 

"No, it's quite alright." His eyes wander to John and Roger over by the window. "You'll have to be up early tomorrow and God knows what time we'll finish. We're still waiting around and we've already had enough coffee to keep us up half the night!" he chuckles. "I'll stay at Roger's, it's all arranged."

"Alright." 

At the sound of his name, Roger turns back over his shoulder, exhaling a puff of cigarette smoke as he meets Freddie's gaze. 

"I love you," Freddie says into the receiver. Roger smirks and blows him a kiss, and Freddie rolls his eyes, although he can't help but grin back. 

"I love you, too. Goodbye, Freddie," says his girlfriend. 

"Goodnight, darling, I'll see you tomorrow." 

Freddie puts the receiver on the cradle and automatically reaches for the half-full cup of coffee he put on the small table there, but pauses before the cup reaches his lips. He enjoys the buzz it gives him, but his stomach can’t take much of it. And he’ll have to pace himself - God knows how much longer they’ll have to wait around tonight. Roy had promised them a timely start to their usual evening slot, but that other band booked in before them has priority and just won’t finish up, wasting their valuable recording time. There's nothing they can do but stick around and wait. 

Freddie runs a finger under the collar of his shirt. Despite the breeze coming in from the window and the late hour, it’s like the heat of the day has retreated into the stuffy room. He doesn’t mind getting sweaty when he’s on the stage or rehearsing or recording, but just sitting around like this, forced to idleness, and slowly feeling his clothes grow stickier with every second, is intolerable. It’s like he can physically _feel_ their time ticking away with every drop of sweat rolling down his temples. 

Patience, he tells himself, defying the restless energy that has built up inside him. It’s all going to be worth it. It's all going to be worth it for the album that carries their dreams. 

He glances over at Brian, who has retreated into a corner, scribbling away, mulling over his notebook. Freddie knows the guitarist shares his frustration. They've gone over it all a million times - everything they're hoping to do. At the very least they know this: once they're finally inside the studio, they can hit the ground running. 

His other two bandmates are more relaxed, chatting away as they lean out of the window. Their favourite pastime during these long waits, on nights like tonight. Roger gives a whistle and John snickers. Freddie is sure they're enjoying the view.

"I tell you what." Roger turns around to the rest of them. "Our lovely neighbours are getting a lot more action than us tonight." 

He is, of course, talking about the whorehouse across the street. When the sun goes down, the view through the lacy curtains isn't half bad. 

"Jolly good for them," Brian mumbles. 

Ignoring him, Roger launches into a story about a friend of a friend who's been to see a lady of the night who liked to sing while her clients enjoyed her services. Freddie slips out of the room to pace the corridor, John's laughter echoing behind him. 

~~~

“Well, that was a waste of a Friday night," Brian summarises as they leave the studio four hours later - only one of which was spent recording, in the end. They would have been more than willing to stay longer, but Roy and Mike had not been so inclined at the end of a long week. 

"It'll be a year before we finish the bloody album at this rate," Roger grumbles, reaching for his cigarettes. Even his good cheer has worn off. He checks his watch. "One for the road?" When the only response is a collective grumble of vague agreement, Roger loops his arms through Brian's and Freddie's and steers them steadfastly towards the pub on the corner. "Come on! I need a drink and we're about to miss last orders."

They make it just in time. At least one thing that has gone right tonight. Roger makes sure to order a double whiskey on ice with the beers. He doesn't have the money, but who cares? They'll be rich and famous, one of these days. Twenty minutes to closing time and they gulp down their pints and pass around the whiskey, sharing it between them. Freddie hates the taste but the others are partaking, so he will, too. 

He realises that it is not yet so late, after all. He could still go home to his girlfriend. He doesn't _have_ to sleep at Roger's tonight. The drummer nudges him with a grin, so enthusiastically that Freddie almost spills a bit of his beer. He's telling John about their touring misadventures. They make for good stories, in hindsight. 

"D'you remember, Freddie?" 

Then again, why bother changing plans, Freddie thinks, and knows that he won't be heading home to Mary tonight. 

Perhaps it's the refreshing lager and lime, or the mild buzz that comes with it, mixed with the stronger stuff, but it does lighten the mood. By the time the landlord asks them to leave for the third time, they're all shouting over each other and laughing. All that pent-up energy which barely found an outlet tonight, now surging to the fore as they spill out of the pub and onto the narrow streets of Soho. 

The night has brought a longed-for cooling breeze and no one is in any hurry to get home as they shuffle along in the vague direction of Oxford Street. Freddie is regaling a tittering John with a story about that time Roger exploded Brian’s flattening iron and Brian had a meltdown five minutes before the show, when suddenly, laughter explodes behind them. He turns around to find Roger and Brian slumped against each other, snickering. 

“What,” he asks, both miffed at being interrupted in his tale and intrigued to hear what set them off like this. 

Roger stretches out his arm, pointing at the cinema on the other side of the street. The building is ugly and run-down, not helped by the garish neon lighting all over it. Judging from the naked flesh exposed on the posters all over the entrance, it’s not the kind that shows _The Sound of Music_. But adult theatres are ten a penny around here, so he really doesn’t understand why this one merits such a reaction. 

Until his eyes lock on one [cartoony looking poster](https://flic.kr/p/2jyiWWa) in the window. “Oh my God,” he groans and claps a hand over his mouth as he remembers that night. It had been a wild ride from start to finish - the pouring rain leaving them all soaked before the show even started, the excitement of playing on the same stage as the Beatles, Brian’s shoes catching on fire…

And that godawful film.

John’s snickers have worn off and he’s looking between them, an uncertain smile playing around his lips. 

Freddie feels a little bad for him - John has been with them for over a year and by now it feels as if he’s always been part of their group. But from time to time he must still feel left out when they are talking about their friends and experiences from before he joined Queen. “It’s, er… it’s a bit of a long story,” Freddie says. 

“It’s not a long story,” Brian points out. “We went to see a film because we had a couple of hours to kill before a show, and those two,” he points at Roger and Freddie, “made such a spectacle of themselves that we got thrown out halfway through.”

“First of all,” Roger begins to count all the ways in which Brian is not telling it right on his fingers, “we thought it was going to be a proper Western, like _The Wild Bunch_ or _Rio Bravo_.” He leaves a dramatic pause. “It wasn’t.” 

Brian makes a growling noise and punches Roger in the shoulder. “You bought the tickets Rog, you _knew_ full well what it was.”

“I swear I didn’t!” 

“It was called _Wild Gals of the Naked West_!”

John does a double take. “It’s called _what?_ ”

Roger holds up his arms at his sides, a picture of unfairly accused innocence. “I didn’t have my glasses!”

Freddie leans over towards John and whispers. “They’ve been having this argument since time immemorial.”

“The least you could do is own up to it, Rog.” 

“Ha! Speaking of owning up,” Roger crows triumphantly. “Secondly,” he dramatically holds up another finger. “Bri here laughed so hard he spilled his coke all over Freddie’s fancy trousers.”

“He jolted me!”

Despite the pang of annoyance he still feels at the thought of his ruined trousers, Freddie can’t help but grin. “I was trying to _breathe_ , darling.”

“Wait, so. So you didn’t...” John looks from one to the other. “When you said they misbehaved, and the title of the film… I thought you meant…” He curls one hand and raises it to about hip height, then hesitates and drops it again. “Ah, never mind,” he mumbles in the general direction of his shoes. 

“Deaky!” Roger gapes at their bassist, his expression a mix of amusement and shock. 

“No,” Brian says drily while John’s cheeks take on a glow-in-the-dark look. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Really, darling,” Freddie chides him playfully while rigorously banning all thoughts of Roger and Brian with their dicks in their hands from his mind. It’s too disconcerting. For many reasons. 

But then he looks over at Roger, who is standing there with his hands on his hips, lips pursed. And the look on his face is one he knows so well, he can't help but break into a grin. Brian has noticed it, too. 

Freddie lifts an eyebrow. "Roger?"

When the drummer meets his eyes, he returns the grin. "You know, we could…" he starts, nodding towards the cinema.

"You can't be serious!" Brian sounds scandalised. 

"Well, we never saw the end last time!" Roger argues. 

John is looking between all of them with nothing short of giddy excitement, like a schoolboy who's been let in on a fantastic prank.

"It'll be a laugh!" There's no dissuading Roger once he's had a brilliant idea, especially after a drink or two. 

"Oh, absolutely not," Freddie tuts, throwing one arm around John protectively. "Are you trying to corrupt this poor, innocent youth?" 

"Hey!" John is quick to protest. "Maybe I want to see what the fuss is all about." 

"He wants to see it," Roger says matter-of-factly, nodding excitedly at John. 

Brian throws up his hands. "I'm going home!" 

But that is blatantly an empty threat. When Roger sticks his hands into his pockets, taking a few steps backwards towards the cinema, the twinkle in his eye is nothing short of a dare. A second later, John has shrugged off Freddie's arm and casts him an apologetic smile as he goes to join Roger 'Terrible Influence' Taylor. 

Freddie and Brian exchange a look. 

"It's probably nearly over at this hour anyway," Freddie reasons, and takes a step forward. With a sigh that is more good-natured amusement than genuine annoyance, Brian comes, too. 

The place is as run-down inside as it is on the outside, and even the foyer is barely lit. There is one lone ticket clerk who looks tired and bored leaning on the counter. He eyes them as they come in and all instinctively group together behind Roger, who boldly walks up to the counter.

"Evening, gentlemen," the clerk drawls. "You're a tad late, I'm afraid." 

"Told you," Freddie murmurs in Brian's direction under his breath. 

"Er… yeah, we know." Roger looks at them over his shoulder and turns to the man again. "Don't suppose, um… _Wild Gals Of The Naked West_ is showing?" 

The clerk is unfazed by the muffled snickers coming from the back of their group. Brian elbows John. 

"'Fraid not," he says, and looks towards a door leading to one of the theatres. " _[Virgin Witch](https://flic.kr/p/2jyiWWk)_ is still playing though." 

"Gosh," says Freddie as they all nod in a very serious manner, trying to avoid each other's eyes so as not to burst out laughing. 

"You'll have missed half of it," the man informs them with a shrug, "but I'll give it to you half price, if you like." His lip curls into a smirk as he adds: "It's the uncensored version."

"Right." Roger looks to their youngest member. "Your call, Deaks." 

Head held high, even though his pink cheeks are obvious even in the dim light, John steps up to the counter and digs for change in his pocket. "How much?" 

~~~

The cinema hall is nearly empty when they enter. They quietly shuffle to the very back - as much as a group of four tipsy, keyed-up men can ever be called quiet. 

Freddie sits down and immediately fights the urge to get right back up. The upholstery feels unnervingly sticky, and he can't tell if it's his seat the unpleasant odour is coming from or if that is just what the whole room smells like. It’s quite disgusting. To his left, Roger is treating him to the familiar series of elbow checks and grunts which are always a side effect of sitting next to him. Freddie has to bite back a smile. Roger’s not a large man by any means, but his abundant, restless energy is too big for any theatre seat. He tuts as Roger accidentally kicks his ankle and gets a whispered “Sorry, Fred” and a flash of a grin - bright even in the darkened cinema - in return. 

Perhaps he can live with the grubby seat after all.

A choked giggle from his left draws his attention. John has pressed a hand against his mouth, eyes locked on the screen. 

Oh yes, the film. 

On the screen, a woman in a bathrobe is just stepping back from a girl in a white dress, staring at her intently. Then two other women step closer and slide the straps of the girl’s dress off her shoulders. It glides to the floor. Next to him, Roger lets out a low whistle. 

Freddie tilts his head. The girl _is_ quite beautiful with her dark hair and perky breasts. Feeling that he ought to make his appreciation known as well, he hums in agreement with Roger, a little belatedly. 

Back on the screen, there is some back and forth with an older bloke and a dagger - clearly they’re watching some kind of ritual. It’s all a bit silly, but although Freddie is trying his best, he can’t find much to laugh at. Not in the way of _Wild Gals_ , with the glued-on moustaches, rubber masks and toilet-based hijinks. He worries that Deaky is going to be disappointed.

The girl is getting oiled up by the woman in red and the older bloke makes as if to stab her with the dagger but then doesn’t. Freddie squints at the screen. Are those supposed to be satanic symbols on their robes? Devil’s horns and a pentagram? This satanic cult would do well to take a sewing class or two so their outfits don’t look quite so shoddy. 

He turns to whisper as much to Deaky, and it does earn him a brief chuckle, but it’s clear that their bassist is not really paying attention to Freddie’s observations. Which is understandable, given that the girl is now lying stark naked on an altar, candles in her outstretched hands, and in the very next shot, the older bloke is on top of her and the other women are dancing in a mad circle around them. It’s a whirl of bouncing breasts and flowing hair, contorted postures and rhythmic movements. And time and again the camera pans to the girl, her face locked in a grimace of agonised bliss. 

Roger starts fidgeting again, which draws Freddie’s attention. They catch each other’s eye, but the drummer turns away before Freddie can lean in and share his thoughts about how this really isn’t at all like that other film. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Roger sink a little lower in his seat, his head propped up on one hand. Freddie leans forward a bit, sneaking a look at Brian as well, who is sitting very still with his fingers steepled in front of his lips. They both seem really quite invested in the film, and Freddie is sure that it isn't because of the storyline. 

He quickly turns back to the screen and reclines in his own seat, as much as he dares. Only he can’t seem to focus on the film at all now, because he has just realised the problem.

Where _Wild Gals_ was so ridiculous it could not be taken seriously, this - while certainly no cinematic masterpiece - is actually doing what it sets out to do. It's erotic cinema that is fulfilling its purpose. He's sitting in the dark, beside his friends and bandmates, and they're watching pornography. Together.

Freddie forces his eyes to stay on the screen, because all of a sudden all they want to do is wander. Still, in the periphery of his vision, he can see Roger's parted lips and the way his tongue darts out to wet them. John tapping his fingers on the armrest nervously as he, too, shifts in his seat. Roger sits up straighter again and accidentally bumps Freddie's arm with his elbow. "Sorry," he mutters distractedly.

Freddie slowly slides his elbows off the armrests, curling his hands around each other in his lap. If he’s perfectly honest the film isn’t doing a whole awful lot for him, but it definitely seems to be for the others. It is hard to miss. The tension which has arisen is almost tangible, and the more he tries to just watch the film the more keenly aware Freddie becomes of the minute movements beside him instead.

He isn’t quite sure what is worse. The fact that he knows he should be enjoying this more than he is - unfortunately, it only serves to remind him that by all accounts, he should have learned to enjoy the _real_ thing more than he does, by now. Bless Mary’s heart and her patient nature. 

Or the fact that he doesn’t want to, but now can’t bring himself to stop thinking about how much the others are getting out of it. What they might be thinking about doing, if they were alone. The very thing he had tried so hard not to think about before. 

To his dismay, it is those thoughts far more than the naked girls on screen which elicit a reaction. A shortness of breath, the hot prickle of arousal creeping down his spine and gathering at his core. With it comes an irrational fear of being discovered, which he tries to shake, because it’s ridiculous. No one can see inside his mind or guess at the depraved notions hidden there.

Although truthfully, what his imagination produces makes him want to look away from those mental images as much as he wants to keep looking. It’s inadmissible to think of their sweet, innocent Deaky in this context. Instead, Freddie’s thoughts catch on Brian’s long fingers... and Roger. Out of nowhere, the depth of his memory provides details he never knew existed there. Although it shouldn’t come as a surprise. They have shared beds, clothes and personal space, there’s hardly a part of Roger’s body he hasn’t, at some point, seen. Still, it is with shocking precision that his mind recalls the calluses on those fingers now, the shape of Roger’s arms when his muscles flex, the dip of his navel and the smooth skin below, graced with but a small trail of fair hair. 

And Freddie can’t look away.

~~~

Well, fuck. 

Roger shifts in his seat, trying to relieve the growing pressure in his woefully tight jeans without being obvious about it.

This is nothing like Wild Gals. Of course, it’s nothing like those films that Les’s brother sometimes got his hands on either, those shockingly raw, imported hardcore flicks that don’t even bother with the pretence of a plot. 

But this has pretty girls kissing and fondling each other’s breasts and being tenderly disrobed to join occult orgies, and Roger can’t pretend it isn’t working for him. Especially since in these last weeks - with recording taking place at all hours of the night and morning, and Jo being busy studying for her exams - his sex life has taken a bit of a back seat. 

Now, under most circumstances, Roger wouldn’t have a problem ending the night with some x-rated entertainment. He’d probably count himself lucky. But now he is squashed between Brian on his right and Freddie on his left, both of them having gone very still as soon as it became clear what sort of film this is. And although they’re his closest friends, they’re just not the type of friends he’d ever watch porn with. Brian is just too, well, not exactly proper, but certainly a bit uptight, while Freddie…

“Look, she’s making a run for the loo,” Brian comments as the now defeated head witch scurries away from the coven. 

“Haha, yes,” Roger agrees. “Had some bad curry, looks like.” 

“Poor wicked witch,” Freddie mutters weakly.

They stubbornly keep up the lacklustre banter, attempting to find something - anything - to laugh at and keep up the raucous, light-hearted mood they had when they got here. 

But as Christine rubs some sort of sacred oil into her sister’s virgin breasts, any trace of laughter dies on his lips. Christ, they look good together. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, mainly so they won’t stray somewhere they’re not supposed to when he’s distracted. 

And there’s plenty to distract him. The camera slowly panning up the long legs of the girl laid out on the altar. The way she looks at the masked figure drawing nearer, her face a mix up apprehension and longing. Naked bodies writhing entwined in each other, illuminated by flickering fire light. 

He is sweating in the stuffy air of the cinema and the space he’s got to move around seems to shrink by the minute. God, he wants to get out of here. Get some fresh air, have a cigarette, rub one out in the loo… But he’s the one who instigated the whole thing, he can’t just make a run for it now. Besides, if he did pop out it would be really obvious why and he’d never hear the end of it. 

He glances at his watch. Half-way over, the ticket clerk had said. This can’t go on much longer, can it? And then he can take the fastest way home and have a nice, leisurely goodnight wank.

Except he can’t. Because Freddie will be along, sharing his room, his _bed_ , and Roger is not drunk or stoned enough to do anything while his friend is sleeping next to him. 

He’s been looking forward to it, actually. He always enjoys it when Freddie spends the night. It’s a bit of a throw-back to their Ferry Road days, before Jo and Mary, before Queen even. They usually sit on the bed together for a while after coming home, sipping tea, chit-chatting or listening to old records to come down from the excitement of recording or a night out. 

But a nice cup of Earl Grey and the folksy sounds of _Rubber Soul_ aren’t going to cut it tonight.

On the screen, a proper orgy has got underway, young women and a handful of men rolling around on the ground in front of the bonfire. Roger can feel his palms grow sweaty at the sight of a stunning blonde mouthing her way down the belly of a slim girl who is biting her lips in anticipation. If only he could… but no, there’s no way he can press the heel of his hand against his aching dick real quick without at least two, possibly all three of his band mates noticing. He’s not going to embarrass himself like that. 

So he closes his eyes instead. 

It’s a great idea in theory. The film’s soundtrack drowns out most of the moans of pleasure the actresses might be making, and in the darkness behind his closed eyelids he’s free to focus on non-sexy thoughts, or perhaps just doze off for a while. It’s been a long day. And wouldn’t that be the ultimate proof of how unaffected he is by this silly film? 

Except that once his eyes are closed, his other senses take over. He can hear Brian swallow hard and rub a hand over his lips, feel the warmth radiating off Freddie’s side. Smell that familiar scent of his. A hot-and-cold shiver goes through him as a stray strand of hair tickles his shoulder. Roger’s sitting close to him in order to make space for Brian’s long legs and pointy elbows. 

He hadn’t noticed before it’s _that_ close. 

Sinking a little deeper into his seat, he counts down the endless seconds to the end of the movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The anecdote about the softcore film they went to see in Liverpool is told by Barry Mitchell, their then bassist, in Mark Blake's "Is This The Real Life".


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read, kudoed and commented!🙏💖 It's great to hear you're having as much fun with this story as we are.
> 
> Also, lots of love to our wonderful and speedy beta, @bisexualroger! 💕

"Well." Freddie clears his throat a few seconds after the credits finally appear, ending their ordeal. "That was a little underwhelming. I'm sorry, darling." He turns to John momentarily, whose voice squeaks a little when he replies while still staring straight ahead. 

"Um. That's okay."

"Shall we?" murmurs Brian, who has the aisle seat, even though the lights haven't come on yet. 

They all mumble in agreement and get to their feet, filing out of the cinema without another word. In fact, nobody says a thing until they've stepped outside into the balmy summer night. The fresh breeze is very welcome and as they take it in with deep breaths, some of their awkwardness lifts. 

Hands in his pockets, Freddie looks at Roger and Brian over his shoulder. "An anticlimactic end to the night, I'm tempted to say, but then again…" All of them snicker, exchanging glances as they walk down the road. 

"So if that was the girls' initiation ritual," Roger says, "Christ, I wonder what they do to initiate a guy. Do the girls all take turns or…" He trails off, pulling a face at the implied alternative of the male grand wizard, or whoever the leader of that cult was, having his way with him. Freddie laughs, a little too uproariously, and it echoes down the quiet street. 

Brian and John don't hesitate to take their leave once Freddie and Roger have reached their bus stop. Everyone is yawning demonstratively as they say their goodbyes, wishing each other a good night. The bus pulls up before Roger has had a chance to light a cigarette and the two of them jump on at the back, making their way upstairs as they always do. Roger drops into the seat by the window in the last row, drumming his hands on his thighs as Freddie sits down beside him. 

“Man, that really wasn’t what I expected.” He chuckles, rolling his shoulders as if to get rid of some lingering tension. 

“Poor John,” Freddie says with a smile and stretches his legs. “We really led him on, didn’t we?”

“It’s not like we knew it was going to be like that,” Roger protests. “Also. I don’t think he _minded_.” He nudges Freddie with his shoulder and throws him a lopsided, cheeky grin.

Being around Roger means being around innuendo and mock flirtation and dirty jokes. It took some getting used to at first, but Freddie has learned to not let it faze him. It's become something he quite enjoys in fact, and on a normal day he gives back as good as he gets, sometimes even making Roger stop in his tracks and double up with laughter at a well-timed bit of obscenity. But this has not been a normal day. 

“No,” he stutters a bit stiffly, feeling the heat creep into his cheeks. “That’s not the word I’d choose.” 

It’s a poor effort, barely enough to contribute to the conversation, but it makes Roger chortle. “Bet you Ronnie is in for a surprise visit tonight.”

“Roger!” Freddie hisses in fake consternation. “They aren’t even married!” 

Roger clutches his hands to his chest. “Out-rage-ous”, he squeals, easily hitting E5 on the emphasis.

Some of the tension Freddie has been carrying around with him melts away as they settle in a familiar back-and-forth. “It must be all those louts he’s been associating with,” Freddie grumbles in his best impression of a Fulham matron sharing gossip over a garden fence. God knows he’s familiar with those. 

“I heard he plays in a Rock group.” Roger leans in to whisper this scandalous piece of news. 

“No!” 

Roger puts a hand on his upper arm, eyes growing impossibly wide as he beseeches Freddie to believe him. “I’m telling you, my dear!” 

And although this is nothing they haven’t done a million times before, Freddie can’t take it. There’s something about Roger like this, right now, that is just too much. So he leans away, looks away, and with a burst of laughter that is just a trifle too shrill settles back in his seat. 

“What?” 

Freddie can just imagine the curious little smile playing around Roger’s lips, his little tilt of the head as he tries to understand what has got into his friend now. Freddie waves his hand at him. “Oh, it’s just…” He can’t possibly articulate the jumble of sensations and thoughts that has taken up root inside him. “It’s just that I had no idea they are allowed to show stuff like this in a cinema.” 

Whatever possesses him to bring the conversation back to this wretched film? But it’s the first clear thought that comes to mind, and he just throws it out, desperate to shift the focus of attention away from himself. 

“Oh yes,” Roger says, nodding and looking very worldly-wise. “As long as they’re not showing any bits, it’s fine.”

Freddie wonders if Roger goes out to watch films like that sometimes. Would he go alone, or rather with some of his old friends from Truro? That’s something mates do together sometimes, isn’t it? Of course, he and Roger are very good mates. But Roger has another, perhaps more laddish side which Freddie has witnessed when they're with a larger group of friends.

It's less pronounced when they're alone. It must be because of Freddie, and that thought leaves him a little self-conscious. He's never quite got the hang of being a _proper mate_ , in that way. But then he can't imagine Roger dressing up in vintage frocks for a laugh with Les or Doug either. That's the side of Roger only he gets to see, and quite honestly, he prefers it. And anyway, it’s not like Freddie would want to repeat tonight’s experience anytime soon. 

“So, who did you like better, Christine or Betty?”

“Hm?” Freddie quickly thinks through their circle of acquaintances, but no one comes to mind.

“From the film, you dolt!” Roger glares at him with fond exasperation. “Christine is the slutty witch and Betty the virgin one.” He pauses for a moment. “Or Sibyl, perhaps?” He taps Freddie’s foot with his own. “More into the mature type?”

In all honesty, Freddie had some difficulty telling the two sisters apart most of the time. “Er, Betty, I think.”

Roger contemplates that answer for a moment, a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. “She does have a very nice bum,” he concludes finally. “But I’d go for Christine, any day.”

“We aren’t going to get in each other’s way then,” Freddie says. 

“Yeah,” Roger agrees, then falls silent. It's exactly this, Freddie realises. This isn't something they usually talk about very much, and a part of him anxiously worries that perhaps it's because Roger knows- that is, _thinks_ -

Freddie desperately tries to find something to say about the girls, to keep the conversation going. Not only to prove that he can. But because as nerve wracking as it is, there’s also something thrilling about it, like he’s inching forward on a tightrope, eager to find out how far he can go without losing his balance. “So you-”

“But she can’t hold a candle to- oh sorry.” Roger cuts himself off when he realises they're speaking at the same time. “You were saying?”

Freddie waves him off. “Please, go on,” he says quickly, because his own attempt at restarting the conversation (“So you like brunettes then”) better never see the light of day. Half of London knows that Roger likes brunettes, it’s an idiotic question.

“Ah, I was just…” One of Roger’s hands slips into his shirt, rubbing at his collar bone. It’s one of his distracting little quirks, one that has Freddie avert his gaze and focus on the lights of the city flying by outside the windows. “Just thinking that those girls were nice and all, but they don’t even make it into the top five.”

“The top five?” He keeps lagging one or two steps in this conversation. 

“Yeah. Of… you know.” He raises his eyebrows. “Go-to girls on lonely nights?”

“Ah, right," Freddie says and then asks, “So who’s in the top five then,” which is a daft thing to do because it practically begs Roger to reply with “...and who’s in yours” and then Freddie will be in real trouble. But he can’t _not_ ask it. Can’t help wanting to listen to Roger talk about what exactly he gets up to on his lonely nights. The tightrope starts to quiver under his feet. 

“Oh, Brigitte of course.” He pronounces her name in an exaggerated French accent. “And Barbara Parkins. And-” He breaks off and gives Freddie a sly look. “You know what, I’ll show you. You wouldn’t wanna miss out on that.”

“Hmm, I’m intrigued.” Freddie hopes that his expression conveys exactly that and not the giddy sort of panic that threatens to swallow him up at whatever Roger’s got planned. 

Roger crosses one leg over the other and turns a little, so he sits with his back against the window. “So, who’s in your top fi-”

“Oh, there’s our stop coming up,” Freddie blurts out and jumps up from his seat although they’re still a couple of intersections away.

Roger gives him an odd look, but follows him down the stairs and then - once they’ve actually arrived at the stop - out into the night.

The flat is quiet at this late hour. They make their way straight to Roger's room at the end of the hall, and while Freddie takes his shoes off, Roger hesitates by the door. 

"Fancy a cuppa," he asks in a hushed voice. 

One of Freddie's heavy platform boots hits the floor with a clunk and he winces. "Only if it's no trouble." 

"Course not, back in a bit."

"Thank you!" Freddie whisper-shouts after him as Roger leans the door shut. He straightens up once he's put his shoes away neatly beside his bag and looks around. 

As per usual, Roger's room isn't exactly tidy but Freddie can tell he's made an effort. He smiles to himself, eyes roaming the familiar posters and pictures on the walls. Some of them used to decorate their room in Ferry Road. It's not half bad, this place. Certainly a step up from sleeping on a mattress on the floor, sharing one room between the two or often three of them. It's cramped, but there's an actual desk here and a small double bed - the luxury! Freddie glances at the untidy stack of papers on the desk in passing, notes and biology textbooks, half hidden under a copy of Melody Maker. ‘Rock around the clock at Wembley!’, it reads, beside a large picture of Mick Jagger. Freddie briefly fantasises about playing to a crowd of tens of thousands as he sits down on the edge of the bed. 

It's strange how the mind works. Even though it isn’t like the room has any particular scent he could describe in words, he can't help but think that it smells of Roger here and there’s a sense of safety that comes with that. It puts him at ease a little after the peculiar night they've had. 

Freddie leans back on his hands and flexes his feet, which ache after a long day in those shoes. When his heel catches on something, he leans forward again to see what it is - and huffs out a laugh. It looks as though, in lieu of cleaning his room properly, Roger has simply swept a fair few things under the bed. The end of a belt is poking out from under there, as well as a shoe and what looks like the edge of a record sleeve. Freddie's eyes are drawn to the worn corner of a glossy magazine. Curious, he leans down and tugs at it. When he pulls it out, his eyes grow wider.

~~~

Roger rolls his shoulders and tilts his head this way and that while he waits for the water to boil. He’s in a bit of an odd mood - tired and exhausted from the long hours at the studio, but at the same time there are these images of occult orgies and bouncing breasts replaying endlessly in his head, winding him up. It’s quite the distraction. Not an unpleasant one, but really unhelpful given that he’s supposed to be making tea and settling down for the night. He focusses on not scalding himself as he pours the boiling water into the mugs. A few glugs of milk, two sugars, both of them. 

Padding down the dark corridor towards the sliver of light where the door to his room is ajar, Roger pushes it open with his elbow and finds himself presented with a sight he didn’t expect. Freddie, too, looks a bit surprised at what he has discovered as he looks up from the magazine in his hands and quickly closes it, giving him a tight-lipped smirk.

“Snooping, were you?” Roger teases, breaking into a grin. He leans against the door to close it before setting the mugs down on the desk.

“Well, if you’ll leave things lying around like that…” 

Roger turns back to Freddie, who is holding up the Playboy magazine playfully. “1966,” he says. “My, I had no idea you were in a long-term relationship.”

“That’s because you never listen,” Roger replies seamlessly. “Gonna tie the knot next year, actually.” 

It’s not that he’s at all embarrassed. In fact, this is one of his prized possessions, and he’s happy to show it off. He had been planning to do just that, when they were chatting on the bus earlier. Only he’d forgotten about it since. If anything, Roger thinks, it’s weird that he’s never shown Freddie before, in all the time they’ve lived together. 

It’s just that Freddie - 

Roger isn’t quite sure how that thought ends. Freddie is _Freddie_ , and sure, he’s got a way about him that draws the occasional comment, but Roger is also no stranger to being called a lot of things he’s not, just on account of his looks. And anyway, Freddie has had girlfriends as long as Roger has known him just like the rest of them. Why wouldn’t he be interested in this? 

“Here.” Roger walks over to the bed and plucks the magazine out of Freddie’s hands, sitting down right beside him. “Let me introduce you to my fiancée.” He flips it open on the right page with practised ease to reveal the centrefold. A dark-haired naked girl is gazing back at them from the page with a sultry come hither look in her eyes. She is reclining on a duvet, all beautiful long legs, slim waist, and full breasts. Soft shadows flatter her fantastic figure and impossibly smooth milky skin. 

Roger casts Freddie a sideways glance. “What d’you reckon?”

Dark eyes catch his for a moment and Freddie purses his lips, the way he has a habit of doing. All of a sudden, it’s as though the room is filled with static electricity. This is hardly scandalous material they’re looking at, it’s really quite tame, but it still feels a bit forbidden. Naughty and exciting, more so because they’re looking at it together. “Very nice,” Freddie says. 

Their arms brush against each other as Roger places the magazine down on top of their laps, returning his attention to the girl on the page. More specifically, the absolutely stunning pair of breasts on her.

“Nice?” He tuts, belatedly. “I’m sorry, but this...” Lifting a hand, he runs his fingertips over the paper. “I mean, look at her. I just can’t believe how _perfect_ those are.”

\---

“Perfect,” Freddie echoes as Roger’s graceful yet strong fingers trace along the curve of the model’s breast. Beautiful as those are, they have little to do with the nervous flutter in the pit of his stomach. He is wildly out of his depth here, and yet he doesn’t want the moment to end. Doesn’t want Roger’s warmth to leave his side where they are pressed together. From hip to knee, shoulder to elbow. It feels intimate in a wonderful sort of way. But of course, he finds himself saying the most inappropriate, laughable thing, given what they're doing here, and realises it even as the words are leaving his mouth.

“Reminds me of a classical painting.” Wait, no. Oh God. He can feel Roger turn to him and doesn't dare look up to see the expression on his face. "I mean, because-” Freddie scratches the evening stubble on his jaw distractedly. “I just mean, it’s very, um... very aesthetically pleasing." He stammers, trying to explain why he’s commenting on a Playboy centrefold like he’s discussing a piece of art at an exhibition, and making himself sound even more ridiculous in the process, no doubt. Heat rises in his cheeks and he pulls his lips over his teeth, fervently wishing he had left the bloody magazine well alone. But to his immense relief, Roger isn’t laughing at him.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s one way of putting it.” He nudges Freddie with an amicable chuckle. “Christ, Fred. Did you study art, by any chance? I’d never have guessed.”

Freddie laughs with relief, ecstatic at the realisation that Roger is right. He did. He did study art, so his reaction isn’t entirely outlandish. “You got me there,” he replies, brushing his hair back over his shoulder. 

When he finally meets Roger’s eyes, there’s a mischievous twinkle in them.

“What?” Freddie asks, his smile frozen on his lips while Roger’s grin widens. That look is usually a precursor to some fantastic hijinks, but given this particular situation, Freddie is wary. 

“Well,” says Roger, sticking the tip of his tongue out between his teeth while he gives Freddie an appraising look. “I think I’ve got something that might upset your artistic sensibilities.” He narrows his eyes a little. “But in a good way.”

“What?” Freddie repeats, somewhere between panicked and mystified. He wants to know, and then again, he’s not sure if he does. Whatever it is, he’ll try not to talk about classicism this time.

“Alright, so.” Roger holds up an index finger, eyebrows raised, and then closes the Playboy. “Ever heard of CC magazines?" Freddie shakes his head. "Yeah, you can’t even get them here. They don’t sell them, ‘cause… well, you’ll see.” Roger puts the Playboy on the bedside table, slips off the bed and drops down on all fours to look under it. Freddie moves his feet out of the way and onto the bed, and scoots back until he’s leaning against the wall with his legs crossed. 

“What treasures do you have hidden under there?”

“This one really is a treasure, I’m not kidding!” Roger replies, rummaging around. “Black market stuff,” he laughs, “not cheap, you know.”

“Gosh,” is all Freddie can say, before Roger re-emerges with an enormous grin on his face, holding up another publication, the nature of which is immediately revealed on the cover. ‘Color Climax’, it reads, ‘Pornography in Color’ - although the writing certainly isn’t what Freddie notices first. “Oh my…” He blinks, gaping at the close-up of a red-head, her eyes trained at the camera and her lips stretched around a large, thick cock. Nudity is one thing. But this - this is actually quite shocking. A part of him immediately wants to turn away because it feels like he really, really shouldn't be looking. Freddie squints a little instead, as though the sheer vulgarity of the image might hurt his eyes. 

“Yeah.” Roger nods proudly and turns it over to look at the cover himself. For a few seconds, he seems to deliberate, tapping one finger against the back of the magazine. Then his eyes flicker in Freddie’s direction and he climbs up onto the bed as well. “Wait ‘til you see what's inside.” He says with a conspiratorial smirk, and lies down on his front, putting the magazine down on the pillow in front of him. 

Freddie uncrosses his legs and moves to lie down beside him, propped up on his elbows. His heart is beating high up in his chest even before Roger turns the first couple of pages. On first look, the content of the magazine is so crude he almost feels disgusted with it. And then, it becomes a little hard to breathe.

"Ever seen anything like this before?" Roger asks quietly, and Freddie almost jumps, realising how close they are. The room feels too warm now, it shouldn't be comfortable lying so close, but he doesn't want to move. 

"Not really," he replies as Roger turns to the next page, and it's true. He's never seen anything quite so _graphic_ in such overwhelming quantities, shamelessly staring him in the face. Every page holds a small collection of pictures that feature what must be every sexual act imaginable. Couples and girls together and entire groups of people. Big, bulky men with big, hard cocks, some half-buried inside moaning women, some just waiting to be serviced, girls kneeling at their feet. A shiver runs through him, raising goosebumps in its wake. 

His eyes hone in on a closely cropped image of a large hand wrapped around a cock, ejaculating on a pair of parted pink lips. The rest of the face isn't even in the picture. _Those lips could be anybody's_ , his mind whispers traitorously and it seems that his trousers have become rather uncomfortably tight. Freddie shifts the slightest bit, moving one leg out to the side a little, and feels his knee collide with Roger's. He wonders if Roger is as affected as he is right now. He's pretty sure that he knows the answer well enough, but then again, maybe that is just his depraved mind bending reality to its liking. Which is worse still. 

Freddie tries very hard not to dwell on why the thought of Roger so close beside him, hard in his jeans right now, makes his own cock strain against the confines of his trousers. 

Roger must have looked at this magazine dozens of times. For all Freddie knows, he's desensitised to the effect of it. And he wouldn’t set Freddie up for embarrassment, to show him something like this and laugh at his reaction, he’s not like that. But he must be expecting something from Freddie. They can’t just lie here, flip through the magazine in silence, finish their teas, which are surely going cold, and call it a night. Can they?

 _Don’t say anything about art_ , his riled-up mind screeches at him as he turns his head to say something suitably laddish and crass to Roger. 

He chokes on his half-formulated words as his gaze lands on his friend. The hitch of his breath sends a hot flush of humiliation into his cheeks, but even of that he’s barely aware. 

Because Roger’s lips are slightly parted. And in the dim light of the bedside lamp, their shade of pink exactly matches that in the photo.

~~~

As with most ideas that come to him at this time of the night, Roger can’t decide if it’s utter brilliance or mind-numbing stupidity to have got out the CC mag. It certainly doesn’t help with his _mood_. But it’s too exciting not to do it.

Freddie goes still when he flips it open, spreading out the lewd images on his pillow. Roger throws him a quick glance to check he isn’t actually offended - you never know with Freddie - but no. Offended is not the right word. Freddie’s large eyes are glued to the page, drinking in the photos with an expression of shocked fascination. He looks so transfixed that he completely forgets about keeping his mouth closed to hide his teeth - instead, his plump upper lip is pushed out, white teeth poking out just behind it. For some reason, Roger’s always had a hard time looking away from that. 

He’s so used to having Freddie close to him, he doesn’t even notice it most of the time. Feet crossing when they both prop them up on a coffee table, sharing an armchair that’s technically meant for one, a head resting against the other’s shoulder when it’s getting late at the pub. Freddie is soft, innocent, unthinking affection, not… not this. Not wanking it to images of girls swallowing come and getting railed by massive cocks. It feels wrong to mix them up like this, like he’s corrupting something pure. Which is a load of crap, of course. Freddie’s a guy, and he’s older than Roger. And he's been known to come out with shockingly dirty jokes from time to time. 

But still, this is different. This is crossing a line Roger didn’t even know existed. 

Then Freddie shifts just a tiny bit, only they’re lying so close that the movement is enough to bump their knees together. Roger trains his eyes back down onto the magazine, while a wave of hot shivers washes through him. _He’s making space_ , he thinks, half-giddy with the rush. He shifts a little as well, but there’s no relief, only the mattress rubbing against his swollen cock through his jeans. 

Utterly, completely stupid. 

He could end this. He could close the mag with a sheepish laugh and a clap on Freddie’s back, excuse himself to the loo and take care of business there while they both pretend that’s not what’s happening. Except there's another idea floating around in his mind, and the more time it spends there, the less he’s able to dismiss it as something that can't possibly happen. Something they couldn't possibly do, because even though to think about it is undeniably exciting, that would be just-

Roger realises his eyes have wandered back to Freddie's face, and he quickly looks back at the page, following his friend's gaze. Ah, yes. He’s seen it before, of course, lots of times. Got off to it, too. There’s something about it that never fails to get him, something about the way that this girl allows herself to be marked like that, to become an object of pleasure. But looking at it with Freddie adds a thrill that goes beyond that. Seeing someone else's reaction, someone who hasn’t seen something like that at all. 

He tries to imagine what all this must look like to Freddie, and the obscenity of the images hits him again with striking clarity. There’s no art here, no pretence. It’s sex, stripped to its essence. The visual of the photo Freddie's looking at is so striking it’s like he can hear the girl’s submissive little moan every time he looks at it. 

Damn it all to hell.

With a mumbled, “Just need to… just a sec,” Roger bends his right leg a little and angles his body just enough to the side so that he can slide one hand down to his crotch and press his palm against his aching cock. His eyes flutter shut with momentary relief, but it takes all of two seconds until that gets replaced with the overwhelming need for _more_. 

‘Just a sec,’ who was he even kidding, himself or Freddie? This is going the way it was always going to go, from the moment he got out the mag. Or perhaps ever since he decided to show Freddie the centrefold, or perhaps even earlier than that. The unthinkable idea solidifies, and it seems a lot less ridiculous somehow. It doesn't seem so far removed from where they already are. But how would he even go about suggesting it? 

Roger trails his fingers over the base of his dick, a small movement, but the slide of his fingertips over the rough denim is loud in the breathless silence between them. 

“D’you mind,” he asks, and opens his eyes, his gaze glued to the pictures in the magazine.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the shake of Freddie’s head. 

~~~

For a moment, Freddie can't comprehend that Roger is asking what he thinks he's asking, because he can't be - but he _is_. 

And then, Freddie's mind abruptly leaps one step further. Is Roger asking if he can touch himself or is he asking if Freddie wouldn't mind… helping him out?

 _Stop it, what's wrong with you_ , he immediately admonishes himself. Of course Roger isn't asking the latter, he never would. He's not like that, probably not even if Freddie were a girl. So he just shakes his head in response, giving his permission for this to go ahead, even though he isn't at all sure how he'll cope. 

Because the truth is that although he can't bear to admit it, not even to himself, Freddie knows perfectly well what is wrong with him. Just as he knows that, should Roger suggest it right now - and, oh God, he ought to feel so ashamed, but all he can manage is a numb sort of disdain for himself - Freddie would be on his knees in front of him without a moment's hesitation. 

But that isn't what's happening. 

Instead, he is staring at the magazine with unseeing eyes, all his senses entirely too preoccupied with the way the mattress dips when Roger moves to lie on his side. And the other man's breathing, which grows harsher and louder over the sound of a zip being pulled down. And then Roger mumbles something, except the rush of blood in Freddie's ears almost drowns it out. 

"What," he breathes, too scared to move a muscle, because if he knows one thing, it’s that he cannot possibly look anywhere but at the page in front of him. 

Roger swallows thickly and exhales a shuddering breath before he repeats himself. And this time, Freddie hears him. 

"I don't mind, either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to get an impression of what the boys are looking at, here are some links for you (both obviously **Not Safe For Work** ):
> 
> [The September 1966 Playboy Centrefold](https://www.dropbox.com/s/dzul4al9x4e2a6j/1966-09-01diannechandler.jpg?dl=0) **(NSFW)** and the title page of [Color Climax 20](https://www.dropbox.com/s/oc2ungpwnlg028d/Color-Climax-20_full.jpg?dl=0) **(NSFW!!!!!)**.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoy this chapter, we have had quite the interesting (and challenging!) time writing it! It is _very_ explicit, but most of you probably know our writing, so... XD Thank you for all your comments and kudos 💕, and yes, the chapter count has gone up. Another chapter will follow this one! 😃
> 
> Thank you, as always, to the lovely @bisexualroger for beta reading! ❤️

There were many things Freddie had expected to do tonight. Finally recording a version of _Keep Yourself Alive_ which they were all happy with was one. Sharing a bed with Roger was another. 

Sharing a _wank_ with Roger was definitely not on that list. 

That wasn't on any list, nor should it be, he's pretty sure. But here he is, tentatively sliding a hand underneath himself and pressing the heel of it against the head of his cock through the material. Oh God, it feels so good. As if his body has been crying out for it all night, and perhaps that is the case. There's no going back now, is there. This is happening. 

Propped up on one elbow, Freddie puts his chin in his hand and covers his mouth with his fingers, trying to contain any involuntary sounds of pleasure. Especially when the little moans threatening to escape him aren’t just due to his hand firmly stroking up and down the length of his aching cock, but directly in response to what is going on beside him. 

Not looking is proving to be of no help at all. His other senses paint a picture that is all too vivid, and Freddie realises belatedly that his eyes have fallen shut. He quickly blinks them open, staring at the naked bodies captured in acts of carnal pleasure. It doesn't at all manage to distract him from the fact that he can feel the rhythmic movement of Roger's hand where it tugs at the sheets. Hear his quiet, voiced gasps in time with the other sounds, indescribable but unmistakable. God help him, he can even smell him - well, of course, it has been a hot day and they've been sweating all evening. It's just Roger's scent, only stronger and sharper, and all Freddie wants to do is lean closer and inhale deeply. Instead, he tries to undo the button on his trousers with one hand and fails. 

Bloody hell, it's no good. 

Rolling over to his side to face Roger is dangerous, because he knows his eyes will stray. But he does - and they do. Just for a second, as he looks down to undo the tricky button on his trousers. And once more, as he pushes his underwear out of the way. Afraid to be tempted again, he squeezes his eyes shut tightly. It's not that he’s actually seen much, what with the dim lighting and Roger’s shirt and briefs and his hand in the way. But it's enough, at any rate. Enough to draw a small moan from him which he can't quite stifle, as he finally wraps a hand around himself. 

“Can you see?” 

Freddie's eyes fly open before he can stop himself at the sound of Roger’s husky voice. Keep them up, he orders himself, only to realise that’s not better. It’s worse. Roger’s face is mere inches from him, his heavy-lidded eyes staring right at him. His cheeks are flushed and his lips dark from where he must have bitten them. The thought of what Roger’s sharp teeth would feel like as they sink into his lower lip sends a pulse through him that he can _feel_ in the hand he has wrapped around himself. And the reason he can feel that is because he’s lying on his best friend’s bed with his cock in his hand. He’ll go mad if he thinks about that for too long, so he tries to focus on Roger’s question. What was the question? 

Roger grins slightly and glances at the magazine. “There's another one that…” He reaches up to flip a couple of pages forwards. “Hmm, that.” 

Freddie forces himself to look at the page. A brunette with long, stockinged legs, bent over a table, looking over her shoulder with a lewd expression on her face. Behind her, a burly bloke is grabbing her hips. He's all bulk and muscle, his huge erection half-buried inside her. Freddie squeezes himself tighter, pushing his hips forward, searching for friction. 

“Yeah, I like that one too,” Roger whispers, a bit breathless. 

God, that voice will be the death of him. They’re so close that Freddie can feel his shuddering breaths on his cheeks. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes on the page, to keep them from wandering back to Roger’s face. He wants to witness every twist of his mouth, every flutter of his eye-lashes. And further down, where he is stroking himself. Freddie wants to look so badly. Only he mustn't be caught looking, can't risk that. 

If Roger was privy to the inner workings of his mind, Freddie has no doubt, he'd be appalled. Disgusted with him, and he certainly wouldn't be here beside him nor allow him to share his bed ever again. And he'd be justified in that, too. But as long as Freddie can pretend that, just like Roger, it's only the shocking pictures in the magazine which feed his imagination and nothing else, absolutely nothing else, then he can get away with it and no one ever has to know. 

It feels like a terrible transgression, a betrayal of their friendship to lie here, getting off on these thoughts, these feelings which are beyond his control. Wanting to look, to touch, to _be_ touched. His eyes have found Roger's face again and he must have let them linger just a moment too long because Roger looks up at him and smirks. His pupils are so large his eyes look black, and Freddie desperately tries to commit the look on his face to memory forever before he averts his gaze. He's so ridiculously turned on he could probably be done soon enough if he put his mind to it, but then it would be over, and he's not ready for it to be over. 

This is one of the best things they've ever done.  
This is one of the worst things they've ever done. 

It's blissful torture, and he deserves to suffer, and he'll have to live with himself afterwards. Although right now, his mind hazy with pleasure, Freddie finds it hard to care about that. 

~~~

This is like nothing Roger has ever done before. He’s watched those porn flicks with Les and the others back at the shared flat, each of them sitting as far apart as possible on the slapdash collection of sofas and armchairs. He’d rubbed himself furtively through his trousers when Graham had brought that pin-up photo he’d found in a suitcase stored away in the attic to band practice back when he was sixteen. 

But it has never been like this. The noises that Freddie makes, bitten back and muffled behind his hand, make him want to close his eyes so the pictures in front of him won’t distract him. Which isn’t how this is supposed to go, but in this shared space where they’re breathing the same air and Roger can feel every single one of Freddie’s movements through the vibrations of the mattress, even those graphic images seem stale in comparison. 

He lets his eyes flicker away from the page and towards Freddie. He has his face pressed into his forearm, his eyes squeezed shut. If he’s really never seen images like that, perhaps they’re too much for him to take in. Perhaps the memory of a brief glimpse is enough for him. 

It’s certainly enough for Roger by now. Truth be told, if he really just wanted to get his rocks off as quickly as possible, he could finish this in less than a minute. Three or four tight, quick strokes just as he likes them, that’s all he’d need, riled up as he is. But he doesn’t want to. After all those hours of build-up, he wants to enjoy this. So he eases the grip of his fist and forms a loose ring with his thumb and index finger just around the head of his cock. It feels so good every time he drives his hips forward, having his foreskin catch just a bit, but it’s not enough to drive him over the edge. 

He wonders if Freddie is doing the same thing, drawing it out on purpose. If he tries to block out Roger’s presence as best he can - or if he gets something out of it, out of the sheer wrongness or novelty or intimacy of this. He wonders if Freddie would rather have stuck with the artful pictures of the Playboy instead of this vulgar stuff. He wonders if Freddie is the type to fuck his fist or move his hand, whether he focuses just on the tip or the entire length, if he reaches down to fondle his balls sometimes…

In a shocking breach of etiquette, Roger glances down. 

He doesn’t see that much because Freddie’s still lying half on his stomach, almost curled in on himself. But there’s his large, long-fingered hand wrapped around his cock and… okay, so Roger _knows_ that Freddie’s big, but he’s never seen him in this state. His body hair thickens into a nest of black curls, so different from Roger’s light fuzz. He watches the way his hand moves. Long, slightly jerky strokes that end in a little twist right at the tip. Every time he pulls down, the head of his cock peeks out, dark and glistening with moisture. 

It’s not… it’s not _attractive_ , not something Roger would ever choose to look at. But it’s so real. And now that he can see the rhythm, he recognises the pattern in Freddie’s choked off moans - the harsh gust of breath on the downstroke, the almost-sob when his thumb traces over his frenulum. 

If there is one thing that gets Roger off, every time, without fail, it is to see his partner getting off. Not that Freddie is his _partner_ here in that sense (he has a suspicion that if he follows that trail of thought a little further, he might quickly get lost, so he doesn’t), but he’s so close, in more ways than one, and he’s allowing Roger to see him like that, and he's fucking _whimpering_ with arousal. 

Roger bites his lips and stills his hand completely. He closes his eyes and takes one, two steadying breaths to bring himself back from the brink. 

When he looks up again, his gaze meets Freddie’s and at the sight of those deep, dark-brown eyes on him he feels caught out. But it also adds a charge to the space between them that runs in flashes over his heated skin. Perhaps he wants to feel caught out, just a bit. 

Whenever he’s with Freddie, there’s always this feeling that something strange and miraculous might be waiting for them just around the corner. And he’s never balked at finding out what that is. And it’s always been worth it. 

He raises his eyebrows a tad, an invitation and challenge all at once, and pushes his briefs further down. It’s more comfortable, but there’s also the added rush of being completely exposed to any look that might stray this way. 

Whatever waits behind the corner.

~~~

Freddie doesn’t know whether he’s mortified or ecstatic.

Because the next time he steals a glance at Roger’s face, he isn’t looking at the magazine. Nor is he looking at Freddie. That is to say… he is, as a matter of fact, looking. At Freddie. 

The realisation that he has caught Roger doing the very thing which he himself has been trying so hard to avoid fills him with a sensation so strange and exquisite that it robs him of his breath entirely. Heady excitement laced with shame, but not dampened by it. He watches Roger go quite still and close his eyes, his chest rising and falling with a deep breath. There’s a small frown on his face, the almost-pain of intense pleasure, while his teeth dig into his bottom lip. And Freddie has to squeeze the head of his cock very firmly, teetering dangerously near the edge. 

Then, Roger looks up.

It’s too late to look away and pretend he hasn’t noticed. Nor does Freddie want to. Because the moment their eyes meet, it’s as though some of the dread and anxiety in Freddie’s chest crumbles away. Because Roger is looking back at him, not with disgust, nor shame, but with a glint of dark fascination in his eye. 

They remain all but motionless, searching each other’s eyes and finding the same curiosity and desire mirrored there. 

Partners in crime, now as always. Two naughty boys sharing a scandalous secret. 

And somehow, that makes it alright. 

Freddie licks his dry lips. By some miracle, some loophole in what is right and wrong, he is _allowed_ this. The tightrope has dissolved beneath his feet, but he isn’t falling. He’s soaring.

The magazine lies between them, forgotten, as Freddie’s eyes trail down Roger’s body. 

He hears Roger’s breath hitch slightly and his cock - which Freddie is now openly admiring with what he prays is not unmistakeable longing written all over his face - gives a little twitch in his loose grip. It sends a shiver through Freddie; the knowledge that he is responsible for that, that Roger _wants_ him to look, and he drinks in the sight. His cock is flushed darker then the skin surrounding it, not as big as the ones in the magazine, but thick and so perfectly curved it’s all Freddie can do not to reach out and touch. Roger runs his fingertips up the underside, from the base to the top, and curls his hand around the head, slowly pulling down. God, he’s leaking, and Freddie has to close his eyes for a bit because he can’t keep looking. It's too much. He wants to feel that hard flesh pulse in his hand, wants to spread those droplets over the head with his thumb the way he's currently doing to himself, slow and torturous. He wants to hear the sounds Roger would make if he took him into his mouth - maybe he'd let him - God, _maybe_ \- Freddie thinks with abandon. 'You could just close your eyes and pretend I'm someone else', he formulates the words in his mind, although he knows he won't speak them, 'you wouldn't even have to look.' 

Where is the line, he wonders frantically, even though he's almost beyond clear thought. Is there a line? Is he safe just so long as they're not touching each other? Have any of the forbidden thoughts he's thinking crossed Roger's mind? They can’t have, otherwise he’d never allow this. 

Would he?

Freddie doesn't dare believe it, it's too much of a risk. One step too far and nothing will ever be the same again, Roger will never look at him the same way again. Of that Freddie is sure.

Still, the fantasy that Roger might deep down harbour some of the same feelings as Freddie (ridiculous, absurd) that he might look at Freddie with the same longing (foolish, preposterous) that he might just be waiting for Freddie to make a move (delusional, _dangerous_ ) takes hold in his mind no matter how much he tries to push it away. It’s bad enough when he catches himself daydreaming like this sometimes. Now it might be his downfall. 

But just the idea that Roger _wants_ Freddie to look at him, that he wouldn’t rather have the bed and the magazine to himself, is making his traitorous cock jump in his hand. All he wants is to give in to the fall. _Do it_ , says the sweet pull of his arousal, _please_ , whispers the tingle that runs all the way from his scalp to the base of his spine. And he gives in to that Siren’s song, loosening his grip and sliding his hand down the length of his erection in long, blissful strokes. 

His eyes fly open and he almost jumps out of his skin when something touches his knee. It’s just the lightest touch, barely more than a tickle from the rough fabric of Roger’s trousers. He’s turned a bit more onto his back, sliding out his left leg to give himself more space _(more space to work his rock-hard cock, to reach down and cup his balls with his free hand as if he had designed this move just to drive Freddie completely out of his mind.)_ Clinging to some last dregs of propriety, Freddie is about to move out of the way, but then a shockingly loud, throaty moan draws his attention upwards, and any further thought - proper or otherwise - becomes impossible. 

Roger’s mouth has fallen open, forming the tiniest pout, and his long lashes are fanning out over his cheeks from his closed eyes. No, not closed. He’s looking down again, down at where Freddie is stroking himself, and it’s like he can _feel_ Roger’s gaze caressing him. 

“‘s good,” Roger mumbles and huffs out a soundless laugh as he circles the head of his cock with his thumb. 

"Yeah," Freddie breathes in response, and with all his daring, shifts closer so his knee presses into Roger’s leg. It's barely a touch, but it's _something_. They've both increased their speed at the same time, it seems, eyes fixed on each other's faces. Roger straightens his knee out a bit and the next moment - Freddie isn't quite sure how it happens - their legs are on top of each other, sliding against each other, and his heart is surely going to jump out of his throat or else give out entirely. God, if they get any closer… 

He looks down at himself, at Roger, the space between them so negligible their knuckles might brush if Freddie pushed his hips forward just a little more. He doesn't, but his imagination runs wild with the idea of pressing their bodies together. Thrusting against each other. Taking them both in his hand and tossing them off like that. Roger's cock pressed against his so tightly he'd feel him come. 

"Ah, God- oh- oh _fuck_ -" Freddie has no control over the words coming out of his mouth, nor the moans which follow them. His leg hooks around Roger's. All he can do is squeeze his eyes shut and ride out the spasms of ecstasy. After the incredible build-up, the release is almost enough to make him weep. For a few timeless moments, everything is unbearably light and it feels as though he might dissolve into that perfect, complete bliss. 

It's over too soon. 

Even while his body is still thrumming with pleasure, Freddie's mind starts to race as it returns to harsh reality, churning up all the horrible things that will happen now as a result of his terrible loss of control. He tries to move away, to make space, in a belated, futile attempt to pretend like he hasn’t been inching ever closer to Roger. 

Except their legs are tangled up now and Roger is not helping him at all in this endeavour. His muscles have tensed up as he is still chasing his own climax. Perhaps there is a chance to salvage this yet. Freddie looks down, trying to find a way to extract himself while Roger is still distracted, but every thought of that gets derailed when he sees the translucent speckles all over the bedsheets. All over his shirt. 

All over Roger’s hand. 

Roger’s hand, which is working his cock hard and fast now, unaware of how Freddie’s come is mixing with his own wetness with every twist of his fingers. To his horror, Freddie feels a shock of arousal twitch through him at the sight. 

He tugs his briefs up and turns away as best he can, his spine twisting until his shoulders touch the mattress. He should feel guilty for sullying his friend like that. He shouldn’t be trying to commit the sight to memory. He shouldn’t lie here, soaking up every little cut-off sob and breathy moan Roger is making.

He certainly shouldn’t be biting his lips in senseless pleasure when he feels a rope of Roger’s come land on his hip and imagines it was on purpose.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room is Roger’s laboured breathing. 

Freddie tries to brace himself for whatever comes now, only he doesn't know what it is. And that only makes it more distressing. 

Roger rolls onto his back, disentangling himself from him, and moves to sit up. And as much as Freddie doesn't know what to say, can't even bring himself to look at Roger at all, there's a cold sense of panic at the thought of Roger just disappearing to the bathroom. Leaving him here, without a word. Although maybe that would be best? He could just grab his shoes, get out quietly and despise himself for the rest of eternity. 

But Roger isn't leaving, Freddie realises a second later. Instead, he pulls his t-shirt off over his head and proceeds to quickly wipe down first himself and then the sheets, before he offers it to Freddie. 

"Needs a wash anyway," he says when Freddie glances up at him, not quite meeting his eyes, and takes the shirt from him with a quiet 'thanks'. 

Freddie wipes his hand on it and cleans off his own shirt. And the sliver of skin just above his briefs. His and _Roger's_ come - his mind can't quite comprehend the reality of that. 

"Should've got some tissues," Roger mumbles, lying back down to do up his jeans. 

"Yeah," Freddie agrees with a weak murmur, and awkwardly hands him back his shirt, which Roger tosses into a corner of the room. Aware that his friend is looking at him, Freddie turns his head just a little, although he can't bring himself to meet Roger's gaze for longer than a second before he averts his eyes again. It's all still so vivid in his mind. He doesn't know how he'll ever look at Roger again without remembering everything. Right now, it seems impossible. 

"Alright?" Roger asks quietly.

Freddie isn't sure what exactly he's asking. It doesn't sound like Roger is quite sure, either. Are you alright with what just happened? Are _you_ alright? Are _we_? 

He nods numbly, a blanket ‘yes’ to whatever it is, hoping that saying it’s so will make it so. 

Alright, that is. 

He wants it to be.

He's not sure how it can be. 

"D'you want the bathroom first or…?" 

"Yes," Freddie sits up rather suddenly, trying his absolute best not to seem like he's fleeing the room as he climbs off the bed, pulls his toothbrush and pyjamas out of his bag and makes for the bathroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reaction to this chapter prompted nastally to write a comprehensive, educational post about the nature of the penis. XD [Check it out here!](https://a-froger-epic.tumblr.com/post/627609109775138816/nastallys-sex-talk-the-penis)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, with the last instalment of our collab. We had a truly fantastic time exploring the age-old, totally 'no homo' tradition of guys having a wank together. ;) And we hope you enjoyed reading all about it.
> 
> Thank you very much to @bisexualroger for Britpicking! ❤️

Roger blinks blearily into the dusty mirror above the sink as he dabs his face dry with a towel. He has no idea what time it is, but it feels as if the night had started at least two days ago. 

He combs through his hair for the third time. He’s already brushed his teeth _and_ used some of Doug’s mouthwash. Short of running himself a bath, he really doesn’t have much else he can do in here. 

Still, he hesitates as he turns to the door. There had been something in Freddie’s manner that was almost subdued when he had come back to the bedroom. It wasn’t usually obvious how slight he was, what with his posture and the sheer force of his personality. But he’d seemed small. 

And Roger had had no idea what to say. 

So perhaps it’s better to give him some space. Just a couple more minutes to come to terms with… with what was frankly the most epic wank in Roger’s recent memory. Perhaps all memory. And it seemed that Freddie had liked the magazine (which Roger had found wedged in between the pillow and the headboard when he'd gone to change the sheets - he’ll have to find a way to get the creases out) and the general… flow of things, too. 

But perhaps it had been a step too far for him? If he’s honest, it had been a step too far for Roger, too. This isn’t something he’s going to repeat with any of his other mates. It’s certainly not something he’s going to turn into an amusing anecdote to tell at parties.

He’s not stupid. He knows what they say about him, about Freddie, sometimes. It’s obviously not true, not in the way they mean it anyway. But he’s seen the expression on Freddie’s face, the one that appears right after the laughter has faded. These things get to him. And perhaps this, just now, was too uncomfortably close to that? Does he feel bad for enjoying it? Christ, perhaps he’s even thinking that Roger had been trying to lure him into something more? Something beyond the easy touches and shared clothes that had always been them?

Roger pauses with his hand on the door knob. 

Well. Had he? 

Of course not, a part of him protests immediately. Sure, the whole experience had been a bit… a bit more intimate than he'd ever care to admit to anyone else. But it's not like they got _each other_ off, for Christ's sake. Roger has to physically get rid of the thought with a shake of his head. 

Because it may have crossed his mind, just a little, towards the end there. 

But thoughts are funny like that and it's not like he'd actually consider doing it. 

Would he? 

Would he have got out that mag if it had been Brian crashing at his place? Would he have got out his cock right there instead of sparing that for a trip to the loo? Would he have got himself off, looking at the way his friend’s thighs trembled as he got close?

He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it a bit. These questions don’t even make sense, because he and Brian are one thing, and he and Freddie quite another. Just what that is, he's never been able to define, except that it has always been tinged with that slight edge of uncertainty. Or perhaps not so much uncertainty as… a hint of curiosity? 

Sometimes, he does wonder what would happen if he went looking at that edge with his glasses on.

But he's definitely not going to go there tonight. 

Roger opens the door resolutely. What is it about bathrooms that turns on the introspection? There’s no need to overthink this. Yes, it was weird (and absolutely fucking amazing), but no weirder than sitting in a cinema, hiding a witches’ initiation-induced semi from bloody Brian, surely. 

When he returns to the room, Freddie is already in bed, close to the wall, where he always sleeps. Roger turns off the light and slides in next to him with a whispered 'good night', perhaps just a little more careful than usual to keep his distance. It’s funny how normally the thought wouldn’t even have occurred to him. Sharing a bed with Freddie always involves a protracted argument about who gets a bigger share of the blanket (Freddie of course, always Freddie). He also usually ends up with some part of Freddie (toes, fingers, nose) that is currently feeling cold wedged against his skin. Even on a mild summer night. 

But tonight, Roger lies on his back at the edge of the bed, hands primly folded on his stomach. While Freddie remains on the other side, curled up against the wall. 

~~~

It's so late and he's so tired. But it's hard to sleep. 

Freddie feels a bit hollow, a bit dirty, a bit cold. On any other night, he’d press his side against Roger’s, and a comforting arm would come up around him. It’s nothing that ever needed discussing, it is something they've always done. But now, after all that has come before… No. He’s forfeited that privilege tonight. Perhaps forever (please not forever).

His thoughts stray to his bed at home instead, and Mary, and that doesn't help. It doesn't help at all. He loves his girlfriend. Doesn't he love her? He does love her. And she loves him, too. Why isn't that enough? Enough to cure him of his affliction. It isn't fair - he's _trying_.

And now there's a growing lump in his throat. No, no, for fuck's sake - not that now. Not that, too. Freddie takes a deep breath and tries to think about something else, anything else. 

Tries to focus on Roger's calm, even breathing. It helps, a little. 

It's comforting. 

Clearly Roger is fine. Why can't Freddie be fine? 

He knows why, of course. Because Roger was tossing off to pictures of slutty women, not fantasising about his best friend. But Roger doesn't know that, Freddie reminds himself. Or so he hopes, desperately, replaying the events of the night over and over in his mind, increasingly sickened by how carried away he'd let himself get. 

It seems almost impossible that he hasn't given himself away somehow, a panicked part of his mind frantically worries. But no, another part reasons, surely he can't have done or else Roger would not have seemed so unbothered. 

God, maybe he's overreacting? 

Maybe he's being an idiot. If Roger really didn't think anything of it, then he must pretend that he didn't, either.

Then again, it remains to be seen. It's hard to believe that he won't be punished for this, in some way. Pulling the blanket all the way up to his ear, Freddie tries to give in to sleep and dreads the morning.

~~~

He is awoken from strange, confused dreams by movement, the rustle of sheets beside him and the sudden absence of a warm body at his side. Freddie blinks his eyes open, squinting against the bright morning light, and finds Roger standing by his desk, contemplating the two mugs which never made it back to the kitchen last night. He looks up at Freddie, a bit bleary-eyed, and smiles.

"D'you want some really old tea?" 

Perhaps it's the fact that Freddie is only half-awake and the night before hasn't quite caught up with him yet, but he breaks into a grin as he shakes his head. 

"Sure?" Roger asks, and they share a chuckle, laughing at nothing. As usual. As always. 

It's a regular weekend morning. Roger makes fresh cups of tea, Freddie borrows clothes to wear. They sit in the living room, munch on toast and chat to Doug a bit, then talk about the album and last night's frustrating time constraints. They even mention their impromptu trip to the cinema in passing, but don't linger on the subject. Freddie will be meeting Mary for her lunch break, Roger is seeing Jo later today. 

They don't talk about what happened. Roger doesn't so much as hint at anything, and Freddie does his best to put the whole thing out of his mind. 

And life goes on. 

August ends and September begins, exchanging summer heat for cool autumn wind, a chill in the air when they leave the studio late at night (which is most nights). Freddie combats a cold and prays to God his voice won't suffer, Roger has a sore wrist for a bit and worries he might be getting tendonitis.

What felt so momentous at the time turns out to have changed nothing at all.

It’s a huge relief, of course. It’s all that Freddie so fervently wished for - that what happened between them wouldn’t make his best friend turn away from him. That he wouldn't lose Roger. 

Why, then, does it still feel like a loss? As though he's been given a taste - no, not even that - but a mere glimpse of something that he can never have, but will always miss. 

What exactly _did_ happen that night? Never acknowledged, never addressed - not that Freddie wants to talk about it, dear God, he most certainly does not - it's almost as though it never really happened at all. 

Except Freddie remembers every detail. When he wants to (and sometimes when he doesn’t). Both the reality of it and the fantasies his mind spun, which become more embellished every time. 

Sometimes he thinks of it by accident. Like when Roger walks in wearing a very familiar t-shirt which, Freddie hopes, has been through a hot washing cycle or two. Or when he catches himself looking at Roger just a little bit too long. And once, shamefully, when he's with Mary, eyes shut tightly and his head in the crook of her neck, panting against her bare skin. It works marvellously well, even though he feels wrong and disgusting deep down, holding her in his arms afterwards.

Sometimes he thinks about Roger in that way on purpose, when he's alone in the shower. It feels like the pinnacle of guilty pleasures. But nothing can come close to the forbidden thrill and the sheer excitement of that night. 

There are other nights when he stays over at Roger’s place. He holds his breath each time, waiting for a sign that things might go down that road again. But they just sit and sip their teas, chat about all and nothing, listen to a new or old record, before they head off to bed, where all they do is sleep. 

Only now the smell of Roger’s sheets brings other memories to Freddie’s mind than comfort and familiarity. _"I don't mind, either." Tangled legs and choked-off moans. The momentary, all-encompassing ecstasy of release._ He lies awake almost until dawn, registering the slightest moves Roger makes, waiting for… he can’t deny it, he is waiting for it to happen all over again, although he knows full well that it can’t. It had been such a singular constellation of circumstances - the drinks, the film, the shared stories - that led them to this point. How could it ever be repeated? Especially since it must have been that breathless sense of novelty and adventure that made it all possible. 

Sometimes Freddie finds himself daydreaming about creating a situation that is not exactly like that, but similar somehow. Soho isn’t short of erotic attractions after all. Perhaps, once they’ve all signed the contract and Trident starts paying out their wages, they could celebrate the occasion by heading to a strip club or a peep show. Freddie would stay over at Roger’s of course, and perhaps he’d have scrounged up his own black-market magazine to show Roger in the spirit of camaraderie...

But a fantasy is all it’s ever going to be. He’d never have the nerve. Playing through the scenario in his mind is enough to make him almost nauseous with anxiety.

It's for the best. He knows it is. 

~~~

There are a few conclusions Roger has come to over the last few weeks. One of them is that everything is relative. This is not exactly a new idea under the sun, he is aware, but he feels like he's gained a whole new appreciation for that thought. 

He's in a relatively committed relationship, and relatively happy to be, most days. He's relatively sure that the sex is pretty damn great whenever it actually happens, which admittedly isn't as often as he'd like, but that's life. He’s not really complaining.

It's all good. 

Or it would be, if he wasn't also quite aware that he's shared one of his most intense sexual experiences in recent years - relatively speaking - not with his girlfriend but with his best friend, however indirectly. Although maybe the definition of the word 'indirect' here is, once again, relative. 

Whether what happened that night was perfectly normal or really quite weird, a good idea or a bad idea, right or wrong - well, it’s relatively hard to say. Because it all depends. It’s impossible to look at it objectively. It wouldn't have happened with anyone but Freddie, Roger is pretty sure about that now, and he's spent a bit of time trying to figure out if that should worry him or not. 

In the end, Roger decides that it doesn't. 

Their friendship is what it is; unique, just like them. No one else gets to impose rules on it. Which leads him to the natural conclusion that there are no rules to be broken, unless they decide to set them. Thinking about it like that feels a bit deep and makes his head hurt, after a while. 

At the end of the day, Roger just isn't somebody who's very inclined to deny himself a good thing. 

At the end of the day, there's nothing wrong with a bit of fun as long as it's not hurting anybody. 

And most importantly, at the end of the day, everything's fine. It's not like they've talked about it or anything, but that's fine, too. Why would they? There isn't much to discuss. 

Although after a while, Roger begins to wonder. Has Freddie forgotten all about it? 

No, that's not what he actually wants to know. 

After a while, he begins to wonder if Freddie ever thinks about it. 

And that still isn't the whole truth, Roger admits to himself one night when he gets the magazine out, alone in his room. Wishing that he wasn't. Alone, that is. Realising that he isn’t so much looking at the pictures, as thinking about how he had felt that night. And if Freddie had felt the same way, too. How they had lain so close their hands almost touched - and he can't help but wonder what if. What if they had. It's overwhelming and frightening, and madly exciting all at once. Thinking about it. Recalling Freddie’s broken voice as he had got himself off. 

Wanting to hear it again. 

~~~

The rain is dredging against the windows that night. It’s the first proper storm of the season, and Freddie is glad that - for all the faults of Roger’s flat - the heating can be turned up to furnace levels. The shot of rum in his tea and the extra pair of socks Roger had wordlessly dug out of his drawer as soon as he had clapped eyes on Freddie’s drenched appearance are helping, too. 

They’d all met up at Roger’s place to discuss the latest amendments to the contract they’ve been offered by the production company. It’s no one’s (except John’s) favourite pastime, but they’ve all agreed that they won’t sign anything but the best possible deal. And so it's been going back and forth endlessly between them and Trident's lawyers for months. 

Roger’s idea had been to go out together after, perhaps invest some of their future earnings in some pub grub and a couple of pints. But with the weather being as it is, none of them are eager to head out into the rain again. So it ends up being canned bolognese and spiked tea in Roger’s kitchen instead. 

Freddie can’t say he’s too sad about it. There’s Pink Floyd playing, providing an atmospheric backdrop that seems to compliment the weather as they’re all excitedly planning out the next steps on their way to superstardom. With the album in the bag and a contract within arm’s reach, it can’t be further off than a couple of months now. And then it’ll be goodbye canned food and cheap wine forever! They drink to the prospect of personal chefs and champagne breakfasts, to loose women and fast cars, to gold-discs, sold-out arenas and the accolades of the adoring music press. 

It’s well past midnight when Brian and John take their leave, just tipsy enough to stumble all over each other as they try to put on their shoes. 

Freddie doesn’t even have to ask. Roger just looks between him, the raindrops running down the window-pane and the woefully inadequate, sodden satin jacket hanging from a hook by the door. “I’ll get you a t-shirt and a towel,” he says, and disappears into his room.

Once in the bathroom, Freddie sighs as he catches sight of himself in the mirror. His hair, which he’d spent half an hour straightening before he left the flat today, has dried in a halo of curls around his head. It’s a curse, it really is, he thinks as he tries to flatten it with the help of Roger’s comb, but to no avail. Oh, well. It’s going to be good enough for sleeping. 

He steals Roger’s toothbrush and habitually searches the cabinet for some moisturiser, although he already knows he won’t find any. Barbarians, the lot of them. 

Tired, but with the same tingle of nervous excitement that always accompanies their sleepovers these days, he shuffles towards Roger’s room. Not that anything will happen. That is not what he and Roger are about, despite his stubborn little fantasies. But the memories of that night will always be tied to this room. And although he feels like this makes him a horrible friend, he enjoys lying next to Roger, indulging in those almost-accidental, thoroughly harmless touches, and imagining, just for those precious moments before he falls asleep, what might be. 

Roger’s already in his sleep wear when Freddie comes in - a washed-out t-shirt and threadbare cotton shorts that pre-date even their Ferry Road days. His back is turned, as he’s stuffing socks and used clothes into a makeshift hamper. Freddie suppresses a smile. Not prepared for guests tonight. 

Then his smile freezes on his face. Because there, on the bedside table, half-covered by the sci-fi novel Roger is currently reading, the top of a magazine peeks out. 'Color Climax 22', it reads. 

A million of confounded thoughts flood his mind all at once. Is it just an oversight? It must be. There's no way Roger could have left it out on purpose. Could he? No, of course not. He wasn't expecting Freddie to sleep over tonight, he hasn't seen the magazine yet, hasn't realised it's there. Freddie feels rooted to the spot. He doesn't dare step closer because then, surely, Roger will notice it just as they're getting into bed and they'll both be reminded of that night. And then… 

Maybe Roger would like - no, impossible - _is it?_ Freddie's heart is racing at a hundred miles an hour. 

Or perhaps Roger won't notice it's there at all and, for a moment, Freddie frantically wonders if there's any way he could bring it to his attention without being obvious about it. Because what if-

Roger turns around, and if Freddie didn't know better he could swear that he glances at his bedside table in passing. Their eyes meet across the room. Freddie is still standing by the door, a little short of breath as they look at each other. Is he imagining it or does Roger seem nervous? 

Freddie takes a few steps forward and it feels as though the very air in the room is charged with electricity which has nothing to do with the thunderstorm outside. 

It's Roger who drops his gaze first and lifts one hand, fingers dipping underneath the collar of his shirt. "You tired?"

"No," Freddie replies without thinking, and quickly adds: "I mean, we should probably-" 

"Oh, okay because-" Roger says at the same time, and both of them fall silent. 

And now he is, Freddie is sure, he definitely _is_ looking at his bedside table. Freddie has followed his line of sight instinctively before he realises that he's done it. When he looks up again, Roger is watching him, scrutinising him almost, his eyes dark in the dim light. 

"Sorry, I… I didn't have time to tidy up," Roger tells him, his voice so breathy and quiet it sounds a little raspy, and it raises the small hairs at the back of Freddie's neck. 

"It's alright," he manages to utter in response. He wants to step closer. Wants to keep moving forward, drawn in by desire, until there's barely any space left between them.

But he doesn't have the courage. Instead, he lowers himself down on the bed, looking away. 

Away from Roger's eyes, but towards the bedside table, and when Roger leans over to slide the magazine out from under the book, Freddie's heart misses several beats. His stomach is in free-fall as his eyes flick back up. 

"Um…" There's a hint of a smile on Roger's lips, a little lopsided, a little uncertain. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it again and licks his lips. "I'll just… get rid of this then…" 

No! Wait. _Please._ Freddie can't breathe, fully aware - even while he isn't entirely sure what is happening, doesn't quite dare to guess at what Roger might be thinking - that if he doesn't say something, and say it _now_ , this will be the end of that. A door closed forever. 

"Wait," he chokes out, and miraculously, his voice obeys him. "If you want-" He takes an unsteady breath. "I wouldn't mind." 

The smile on Roger's face grows more comfortable there. "Yeah?" he asks. 

"Yeah," Freddie breathes, goosebumps all over. 

Roger sits down beside him and scoots closer. Shoulder to elbow. Hip to knee. They steal a glance at one another, eyes mapping each other's faces, before they both turn to look at the magazine on Roger's lap. 

"Okay," Roger whispers, and opens it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all we wrote. ;) Let us know what you thought! 🙏💕


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